


The Devil of Hell's Kitchen

by FadedSepia



Series: Clint Barton Bingo Lines [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton Bingo, Concerns for Matt's Safety, Costumes, Drunken Stupidity, Dumpster Babies, Gen, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Mildly Creepy, Mindfuck, too much glitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Whether it was pity, loneliness, or just trash fire recognizing trash fire, they were friends. Shitty man-whore disasters sometimes – Matt more than himself lately, for once – but that didn’t leave any ground for judgement. So when Murdock had rung him up the night before, too deep in his cups to keep from picking up his damn phone, Clint had,reluctantly, agreed to come out and drink with him tonight.On Halloween.In public.In costume.Clint agrees to meet his friend for a few drinks, unprepared for handling everything that may come his way this night.





	The Devil of Hell's Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to insomnia, banana chips, and reystarkrogers for somehow helping me finish this in one day?
> 
> This fulfills my Clint Barton Bingo Square G3.

Clint Barton could officially say that Halloween was the worst. It had sucked when he was a kid, with his ugly paper bag costumes getting trashed by rain, and Barney taking all the good candy, and it still sucked now. People getting dressed up like sexy everything, getting wasted out of their minds and wandering into traffic, and jumping out of every god-damned doorway like their asses were on fucking springs.

Clint didn’t know who the hell thought _mustard_ needed to be _sexy,_ but he was pretty sure he’d broken that guy’s nose and a few others’ just from being startled on the way to the bar. Someone pinching his ass he could handle. Hell, he might even enjoy it after his current dry spell, but nobody needed to leap from behind a post box to do it.

He eased through the door of _Viola’s_ , walking to the back and sliding onto his usual stool in the corner; good view of the exits and close to the head.

He was only even out tonight because Matt had called.

Whether it was pity, loneliness, or just trash fire recognizing trash fire, they were friends. Shitty man-whore disasters sometimes – Matt more than himself lately, for once – but that didn’t leave any ground for judgement. So when Murdock had rung him up the night before, too deep in his cups to keep from picking up his damn phone, Clint had, _reluctantly_ , agreed to come out and drink with him tonight.

On Halloween.

In public.

_In costume._

He’d dug out half of his old _Amazing Hawkeye_ outfit, borrowed a pair of purple bat wings from Kate – _“Don’t ask, Hawkeye.” “Not asking, Hawkeye.”_ – spray painted some cheap devil horns and a tail bright purple, and dusted himself in enough lavender glitter to choke on. If nothing else, _buff gay incubus_ was a hit with, well, pretty much anyone with a pulse, and he hadn’t paid for any of his drinks in the last ninety minutes of waiting for Matt. Not with money, anyway.

Given his penchant for the look, Clint had figured Matt would show up in something as close to his work uniform as possible; if nothing else, the man was consistent.

Matt Murdock walked in with a perfectly fitted deep red suit, so dark it almost looked purple. He had on simple leather gloves, tricked out to make it look like each finger had two too many joints, and only the tiniest of horns poking up through his short brown hair. Given that little bit of effort – and the fact that he could probably wear that suit to fucking work – Clint was tempted to call it cheating. He honestly might have, had it not been for the mask.

The mask was impressive. Terrifying, if he hadn’t known who was under it. There were eyes, but too many, and all in the wrong places for anyone to see from them. Not, of course, that Matt really needed to _see_ the way other people did. He’d blended the hair along the top into his own. With the lower seam of the mask hidden by his collar, it really _did_ give the impression that something not quite human was walking into the bar.

Clint had to give him props for it: When he put in the effort, Matt Murdock was a true champion at being a fucking creeper.

He settled in on the next stool, tilting his head to the side.

Clint guessed he was probably smiling under the mask. In fact, looking a little closer, it seemed the edges of the muzzle-like mouth had quirked up. Murdock _would_ go in for some animatronic level shit, if only for the theatrics of the whole thing.

Still, he could have done better if he was going to spend the money, and especially since they were on Matt’s home turf, anyway.

“Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” Clint lifted his glass in a mocking salute. “Kind of obvious with the costume tonight, dontcha think?”

“Well, nobody’s really looking for me here, even if this is where everybody seems to find me at some point.” Matt’s voice was a little garbled, but Clint had to admit he was impressed; that thing on his head was a waste of money for one night, but it was good tech, lips almost seeming to keep up with his speech.

“True enough. Kinda like finding Jesus in prison.” He slid his glass between his hands across the polished bar top, smirking. “Except I _was_ looking for you.”

“I’m not hard to find.” Matt leaned forward onto the bar, resting his head on his arms. He sighed softly, turning so that it almost looked like he was staring, one-sided, up at the ceiling. Or maybe Matt was looking at him. “You manage it every time, Clinton.”

“Okay, the soft-voiced lurker thing was funny for a little bit, man, but knock it off.” Clint rolled his eyes, slamming his elbow into Matt’s arm. “Next round’s on you if you keep being an asshole.”

His friend shrugged, one eye blinking as he straightened up. “Can’t really help that, now can I?”

“Guess not.” He sipped from his drink, the glass clinking into his teeth as two patrons shoved past him on their way to the bathroom. Probably heading there to suck face in the stall. Freaks; what kind of sheep wore rain boots, anyway? “Why are we even out tonight, Matt? I mean, costumes suck. Jump scares suck. People suck.”

“Free drinks?”

“Right. Free drinks.” Clint sculled his glass, chugging down the last of his vodka, tongue chasing the ice cube around the glass before he got it, chomping noisily once it was in his mouth.

“But, speaking of...” Matt plucked the glass from his hand, setting down on the counter between them. “This round’s on me.”

“Hey, no, you don’t have to do that.”

He shrugged, one shouldered. “I can’t very well stop being an asshole, though.”

“I mean. That’s a pretty downer thing to say, man, even for you. I was just joking.”

Matt waved away Clint’s hands before he could grab his wallet, nodding to the woman behind the bar. She brought over another glass with a straw – “For your mask, hon.” – and topped up both their glasses with a few ice cubes and scotch. Not Clint’s first choice, but he wasn’t paying, so he wouldn’t complain.

He lifted his drink with a tepid smile. “To facing our demons.”

“To becoming them.” Matt clinked their glasses together before taking a long sip through the straw. Feet tapping idly on the floor, he turned back toward the wall of mirror and bottles.

Clint did the same.

They could both get drunk as skunks, and mouthy as hell some nights, but he had a feeling his friend had gotten most of that out of his system the night previous. For his part, Clint really wasn’t in too much of a talking mood, and sipping his scotch in silence suited him just fine.

Clint felt something shift along his back. He realized Matt had started drunkenly flicking the purple bat wings, absently fluttering them.

“You’re wearing wings?”

He shrugged. Usually, that was the sort of thing his friend would notice right away, but he was a little off. Probably a tad hungover to start with, and the creepy prosthetic was covering his ears, too. Clint nodded, trying to be considerate, leaning a little closer so that Matt could more easily touch them. “All night.”

“I miss mine.” Matt turned, hand reaching over his shoulder to tap against the back of the suit. There were two holes, just over his shoulder blades, that looked to have been burned out of the fabric. They scorched straight through jacket and shirt, down into the flesh, leaving it charred and weeping.

It was disturbingly lifelike, reminding Clint of a few wounds he’d seen. A few he’d inflicted, too.

It was very good makeup.

Had to be.

Murdock wasn’t _that_ much of a penitent masochist.

The man in question spun back around on his stool, slipping the straw out through the mouth-hole of his mask as he spoke. “But maybe someday, hmm?”

Clint blinked and set down his glass.

Even for Matt, this was way beyond the baseline level of freaky.

It was getting to the point that he was very seriously considering calling Claire. Or at least Jess. He hadn’t seen the other man acting this fucked up in a long while. Sure, the guy had a bad multi-day bender habit, but he should have slept off some of it by now. Of course, Murdock did defend a number of… unusual clients that might have gotten him any number of _substances._ “Did you pregame? Drop something on the way?”

“Not really.” Matt glanced down at his watch, tutting to himself and slurping up the rest of his drink. “I need to step out for a minute.”

“You want me to come with you?” He tried to angle himself between Matt and the little hall back to the bathroom, but the other man dodged easily around him. Clint was left to follow, squeezing his bulkier frame through the women’s room queue, trying to keep up while still protesting. “I mean, are you okay to go on your own?”

“Oh, I am most certainly alright.” Matt was striding past the steps that Clint knew led to the basement. “But it might be a while before I see you.”

Clint threw himself past his friend, pushing the man back one handed, reaching for the knob of the bathroom door with the other. It was locked. _Perfect._ All he had to do was stall Murdock until he could figure out just what was going on here. “Dude, we’re seeing each other next week for poker night.”

Glancing past his shoulder at the closed door, Matt sighed. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning into the wall, tapping his gloved fingers idly against his thumb. “It may be a little bit longer than that, if ever, but it’s out of my hands for the moment. Besides, I honestly hope I don’t get to see you, again, Clint. It’s been fun, but it would be a shame.”

That was not something he should have been saying. None of this was anything that should be coming out of Matthew Michael Murdock’s mouth.

Not ever, and definitely not _again_.

He knew _this_ Matt, if he could even be called _Matt_ , anymore. Clint wasn’t sure he could.

Clint Barton and Hawkeye bled and seeped into each other near seamlessly; after so many years, it was hard to tell where one stopped and the other began, even for the man who’d built those identities in the first place.

On the other hand, most days, it felt like Matt Murdock and his red-suited alter ego were two completely different beings. Clint could drink with Matt. Could hang out on the roof, or play wing-man, or even just walk around the city going nowhere with that guy. Daredevil, though? Deep down, Clint was honestly a little bit scared of him. Scared _for_ him.

Self-destruction was an old friend, to Clint and Hawkeye alike, and seemed to be visiting Matt more frequently as time went on. “Yeah, um… alright, just… I’m gonna call Claire and a few folks I know, okay? I’m not in shape to keep you company tonight, and I think Riverside might have a bed free.”

Behind him, the door unlocked. Clint had to move aside to let the man back into the bar. He tried, vainly, to keep Matt in check, but the other man slid sinuously under his arm.

“Mm… I don’t think I’ll ever get to meet Claire, but say hello to Matthew for me, won’t you? I’ll be seeing him soon; sooner, rather than later, if he’s not careful.” The door slammed shut on his chuckled words.

Clint fumbled his phone into his pocket and bulled into the bathroom after him. “The fuck, Murdock?!”

He scanned the room. The door of the stall along the wall hung open, and Matt wasn’t at the urinal. He wasn’t on the floor, either. He definitely wasn’t skinny enough, or fast enough, to have made it out the low hopper window.

Clint stared, but there was nothing there to see.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was gone.

He stepped out through the back exit and into the October chill, listening, looking for any sign of where Matt had scurried off to. Maybe it was more of that weird-ass ninja crap. Clint really hated having to choke down the mystic shit on top of the cosmic shit, but that was the only explanation for the other man’s sudden disappearance.

With a sigh, Clint slipped back in to the bar, pausing in the short hallway outside the bathrooms to fire of a few texts. One to Claire, asking her to keep an eye out for be-suited idiots in the ER. One to Kate, warning her that Daredevil might be trying to sneak into one of their apartments to sleep off a bender. One to Jess and Peter, alerting them that they might have to help him with dumpster checks if Matt didn’t show up by morning. And, of course, one to Matt Murdock himself, telling him to _go the fuck home and call someone, asshole._

Not that Clint meant the last part.

He just dealt better with anger than concern.

And maybe he meant it a little bit, too.

After a final glance down at his screen – and a few moments of willing Matt to respond – Clint slipped the phone back into his pocket. He shuffled back to his usual stool and ordered another scotch for himself, and one for Matt, just in case he came back tonight. It was futile hoping, but it was all he could do for now. He slumped forward over the warm wood of the bar top, sipping slowly, only to look up, attention drawn to the door a few moments later.

The door to the bar swung open, and Clint saw a folded white cane wave over the heads of the other patrons.

Matt Murdock rushed into the bar in a perfectly-fitted pair of deep red suit pants, so dark they almost looked purple. He had on matching fingerless gloves, a set of crimson feathered wings and matching halo, and his usual red-tinted sunglasses; he’d dusted himself in enough rosy glitter to choke on. He skittered and slipped his way through the crowd, knocking into a few of the other patrons before throwing himself down onto the stool next to Clint.

“Tonight is fucking crazy! I think I’ve got bruises on my bruises from the pinching. This costume was a terrible idea.” Matt reached for the full drink beside Clint’s half empty one, tipping it back and swallowing half in one gulp. “Thanks for the drink. I’m sorry I was so late.”

“You're… not?” Clint blinked. When had the other man had time to change, and why didn’t he remember the last half hour? Maybe the poor guy had finally lost it. Fuck, maybe Clint had. He looked down into his glass, then sniffed it experimentally and put it down. Better safe than crazier. “You’re not late Matt. You just went to the bathroom. Remember?”

“Clint, I literally just missed all the cabs, and ran it.” Matt leaned in, resting a perfectly jointed, normal hand on his arm, feet swinging inches off the floor. Matt was shorter than he was. Matt’s feet never touched the floor, unless they wound up somewhere that set Clint eating his knees from being too low to the ground.

Clint looked down, first at the stool, then at the floor beneath Matt’s feet. He knew his friend couldn't really see it, but it was pretty hard for him to miss the singeing on the cracked pleather cushion, the scorched footprints on the old oak floor. Clint leaned down, dragging his hand through a layer of deep grey soot. It drifted away when he rubbed his fingers together, dusting through the air, fine enough to choke on.

**Author's Note:**

> Clint Barton Bingo Square G3: Angels/Demons


End file.
